Shaded Reality
by YuYuFanatic14
Summary: The world of Watchmen is not real. It is only a figment of Rorschach's imagination.. while he is wearing his mask.


So this is a bit of an experimental piece, as well as my first foray into Watchmen fanfiction. I hope you enjoy it, though I do realize it can be confusing at certain parts. Just ask and I'll do my best to explain further.

* * *

><p>The punches are clumsy and uncoordinated, but the would-be mugger, still frozen in terror at the sight of him, doesn't fight back and is easily overcome. There's the faintest crunch of a footstep behind him; another one. He spins around and kicks, catching the man square in the chest. He goes down too. Perfect. He's getting better at this.<p>

Reassuring the young woman that she's fine and can go home now, he continues down to the corner and looks around. No criminals. The city's safe for another night. Satisfied, he reaches up to pull at the fabric around his neck and the mask slips off, revealing scruffy ginger hair.

The dark, grimy city street melts away into the warmer, safer colors of his living room. Walter drops the mask and collapses onto the couch, breathing heavily from his exertions. It only takes a minute for him to catch his breath, and then he's standing, smiling as he tenderly picks up the mask. Finally he retreats into his bedroom, strips off the long trench coat, and gets dressed for work.

* * *

><p>He hasn't gone outside in a week. He ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that tells him that's probably a bad thing, and focuses again on the fabric in his hands. White and black. All-encompassing confidence, only as far away as the time it takes to slip the thing onto his head.<p>

Things weren't always like this. He'd had a job before- a nice, quiet, unassuming job as a tailor's assistant, where he could help ladies discover their natural beauty with the help of simple garments, rather than the flashy, overly-sexual things constantly shoved at them by men. But, of course, all good things are eventually ruined.

The dress. It had all started with the dress. A woman- who had only ever called herself Kitty to him- had asked for something more creative than the usual commissions. A white dress, covered in black patterns- almost like a Dalmatian's spots, but done in a way that made him think of a thousand black butterflies streaming over her body.

She'd brought her boyfriend along with her when she came to pick it up; maybe she thought he'd like it, maybe he'd just driven her there. Whatever the case, he'd taken one look at the dress and wrinkled his nose.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?"

He'd bristled internally at that. Kitty had been overjoyed at first glance- he knew he'd done well. But her boyfriend apparently didn't think so.

"This is what you're spending my money on? This garbage? C'mon, we're leaving."

Kitty's pained eyes, so apologetic as she looked back at him, being dragged out of the store, made him feel as though a fire had started in his belly.

Why hadn't he done something? Said something? It was the woman's right to choose what she put on her body; if Kitty wanted a special dress, it was her decision.

But of course he'd been too weak to speak up for her. The man wouldn't listen to her- women were too beneath him. He would have listened to another man, if he'd just had the courage to _do_ something.

…This needed to change.

* * *

><p>It had started slowly, the creation, the obsession. Driven by a half-shadowed memory, he'd gone down to the basement and dug through crate after crate of junk, looking for it. <em>It.<em> He could hear it calling out to him, reminding him of what had been.

_Courage._ He'd had it before, when _it_ had been with him. He needed it back, and _it_ was the only way he was going to find it.

At last, his hand touched something slick and cold. He pulled it out of the box. Stared at it. The childlike stitching made him cringe, but he could fix that. He could make it bigger. He could wear _it_ once again, and soon he would be confident enough to handle everything.

_Its _strength would soon be his.

* * *

><p>Rorschach's voice was almost frightening, loud in his mind after such a long absence. He judged everything, allowed no wavering; every thing, every person, every thought was either good or bad. No in-between.<p>

Yet this was strangely comforting, something he'd been looking for without knowing it. He needed guidance, someone to tell him what to do, how to think.

His past was a secret that slowly unfolded, petal by petal, like a decayed rose. Birthed by a whore, raised in a home, surrounded by corrupted filth that constantly spat in the face of justice. But he had never been brought down to their level. He'd been stronger than that, brave enough to patrol the streets at night, unaided save for Nite Owl. His only friend.

Nite Owl was the only one who truly understood him, his cause, his motives, and never rebuked or ridiculed him for anything. Even as children they'd fought together, protecting those who could not protect themselves. They were not on the streets, then; no, their only available domain had been that which they could escape to without their parents' notice: the park, the playground, their neighborhoods. They'd been around long before Ozymandias and the Comedian, older than them, but lazy and selfish. More serious than Silk Spectre, who cared more about her clothes getting muddy than actually helping the other children.

Walter can remember his own friends, or at least the acquaintances that bestowed that title upon themselves. The intolerable classmates from high school- especially Eddie and Adrian, always making fun of his ripped and dirty clothes, insinuating awful things about him, starting rumors. Laurel, beautiful but dangerous, and never to be trusted. None of them were to be trusted, Rorschach said. Moral-less people, interested only in what they could attain for themselves, uncaring of the lower class, the helpless.

Except for Dan. Walter can't quite remember why Dan is special, trustworthy, _safe,_ and Rorschach's not telling, but he's glad for that warm feeling that spreads throughout his body at the thought of the gawky, owlish boy with glasses.

* * *

><p>The outings will begin immediately, Rorschach tells him. The sooner he can start proving himself, the better. They start off easy- Walter goes to practice boxing at the gym every day after work that first week. Rorschach knows everything he needs to become proficient, and if the fitness instructors there give him odd glances every once in a while, it's nothing he needs to worry about.<p>

Things are looking better. He helps people, makes the city a safer place, and in return he feels his confidence rise with every passing night. Yet he comes home every morning, sweaty and tired, and feels a little foolish when he sees the house in disarray. An odd feeling tugs at his heart, spiteful voices whispering how futile his efforts are. But he shoves them away. It helps.

Nite Owl brings it up a couple of days later. They're out on the streets, having just dispatched a mugger. Easy prey. Rorschach wants, _needs _something more. His muscles are quivering in restless anticipation, and he can feel his face twitching under his mask.

"Are you feeling alright, Rorschach? You look a little… tense tonight."

"Fine," he mutters, ducking his head between his shoulder blades. "Don't get distracted."

"I'm not," Nite Owl replies indignantly. "You just haven't seemed all that into patrol tonight."

Rorschach is quiet for a moment. "It's futile, Nite Owl," Walter finally says. "Nothing is achieved. Scum reappear night after night, streets look no different. Nothing changes from what we do."

"How can you say that?" The words are spoken both inside and outside of his head. He loses the next few words that Nite Owl says as he tries to puzzle that out.

What they do is important, he hears. They do make a change. They just started too late; it will take a long time before a sizeable dent is made in the filth of the city. It's had too long to accumulate with no one to check its growth. They do matter.

Walter doesn't believe any of it.

* * *

><p>He and Dan are out drinking. They do this on a not-quite-weekly basis, just a way to catch up and blow off some steam. It's been a while since their last meeting (Rorschach's been pushing him hard lately and he's been too tired to do anything after work but collapse into bed until it's time for patrol), and Dan is happy to see him.<p>

They exchange the normal pleasantries, and then conversation tapers off. Walter can barely keep his eyes open and for some reason this makes Daniel cease his usual ornithological-related rambling in favor of peering at him like he's made of glass and about to break.

"You feeling alright, buddy?"

Walter starts, the almost-verbatim line playing in his other memory. Daniel quickly leans away from him, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

"It's okay, it's just me. I'm sorry." Daniel pauses. "Do you… would you rather do this another night?"

Walter frowns. "Why?"

Daniel squirms uncomfortably and takes another sip of his drink. (Something sugary, Rorschach notes with a hint of disdain.) "You just don't seem to be all here, is all."

"Apologies." Walter forces himself to sit upright and breathes deeply in an attempt to wake himself up a little. "Work has been… draining, this week."

Daniel nods and smiles sympathetically. But there is a sad tinge to his expression, and it makes Walter's stomach twist.

"Work," the other man repeats. "It didn't always tire you out so much. Are you sure there's not… something else bothering you?"

"Like what?" This is getting irritating, and Rorschach can see the clock behind the bar ticking closer to patrol. He needs to leave.

"Are we still friends?" The words leave Daniel's mouth in a rush, and Walter is unsure how to respond. His eyes dart to the clock again, then back to the other man's distressed face. He looks away. Rorschach is pulling at him, muttering about the weakness of loyalty.

"Have to go."

Walter slides off of the stool and makes his way through the crowded bar to the door. If the last untouched piece of his heart crumbles away completely, he doesn't notice it. There are more important things to do.

* * *

><p>Rorschach pushes him harder than ever that week, withholding sleep and, sometimes, food. Walter can feel himself fading, but doesn't really mind. No one will miss him if he just disappears. So he watches his body grow leaner, his apartment become messier, and gives himself up to Rorschach.<p>

Something shifts in his brain. As the sun rises over the skyscrapers, the urge to unmask and go to work gets weaker. And weaker.

Until the mask becomes his face.

* * *

><p>Nite Owl is late for patrol.<p>

Ordinarily this would not be unusual. There have been many occasions where Nite Owl has decided not to go out, to remain Daniel for the night. Rorschach doesn't always understand why there are these exceptions; crime doesn't take nights off, why should Daniel? But he says nothing, and goes about his solitary patrol with twice as much fervor, making up for the lack.

Tonight is different, however. Nite Owl had told him when to come. Had promised they would fight together. He's missing.

The house seems to be in order. Nothing missing or knocked over. Then he reaches the basement and freezes. The Owlsuit is gone. Daniel wouldn't have left without him, and he never lies.

The conclusion is not pretty, and he will lose tonight's patrol investigating, but the life of his partner is worth it. Rorschach tucks himself silently into a closet and waits for his prey to return.

* * *

><p>"Walter?" Dan knocks on the door again, a little harder this time. "Walter, it's me, Dan."<p>

There's no response. No turning of the lock, no padding of footsteps, no voices distinguishable from the white noise of the city. Dan bites his lip, glances around the sidewalk one last time. Slowly he reaches into his pocket for the lock pick he always has on his person. Walter couldn't just have a key under the mat- too normal, too _unsafe._

The lock gives after some careful finagling, and Dan steps into the dark apartment. That alone is enough to give him pause.

"Walter?" he calls out again. He steps forward cautiously. The door was locked, and although the place looks like a war zone, the windows don't look broken in to. No burglar, then. Walter can't be asleep. Not at six in the afternoon. Still no noise. Had he actually gone in to work, for the first time in weeks?

Dan's muscles relax at last. He'll go home, have a nice cup of tea, and then call Walter later to ask him how his day back in normalcy had gone.

Just as he turns to head back to the door, it happens. The back of his head explodes with pain and he falls to his knees as stars bloom before his eyes. The last thing he hears before passing out is a dark, satisfied laugh and the uncoiling of rope.

* * *

><p>The world fades back in slowly, painfully. Dan can tell he's sitting upright, but he must be tied to the chair- his hands feel numb. He opens his eyes. His glasses are still on, and he's not blindfolded. He almost wishes he were, however, because the sight in front of him is terrifying.<p>

Walter, it has to be Walter, is pacing the kitchen floor, gloved hands clasped behind his back. He's wearing a too-large, billowy trench coat and a mask over his face. The mask is skintight, and the patterns of white and black are so tightly wound together they seem to be moving. Dan can't tell if the other man is whispering, or if that noise is his own hoarse breathing.

"Nite Owl."

His head snaps up. He hasn't heard that name in years. "Walter? What's going on?"

"Why dressed that way? In civilian clothes. Dangerous."

Dan frowns. "Civilian- what are you talking about? I always dress like this."

An almost inhuman growl escapes from the shorter man's throat and his pacing halts.

"Lies. You know the importance of disguising identity. Irresponsible." When Walter speaks again, something in his voice has changed. "Nite Owl would never be irresponsible."

_Oh, no. _Daniel shakes his head, eyes widening as he suddenly sees where Walter's disturbed mind has gone. "No. _No_, you've got it all wrong. I was just- trying to see if you'd fall for my trick. You didn't, you-" he swallows, seeing he's made no dent in the other's resolve. "Please, Walter, don't do this. I'm _Daniel_, I promise-"

Pain erupts across his cheek and it takes him a moment to process the fact that his best friend has just _hit him_ without a second thought. He opens his mouth to protest and is hit again.

There's silence for a minute. Daniel dares a glance up, spitting out blood. Walter's head is bowed in what seems to be remorse. Dan leans forward, and carefully works on shimmying his hands out of their bonds to get to his pocketknife. If he could just… reach…

_I can't die this way._

"What did you do with Nite Owl?" Walter's voice is flat, resigned. Much different than it was a minute ago. Dan isn't sure if he likes the change.

"I haven't done anything with anyone," he says is the calmest voice he can muster under the circumstances. "And I'm Nite Owl, remember? I just haven't been for a long time." He winces, knowing what he's about to say may be what kills him. "I grew up."

Walter's fists clench and unclench several times. He reaches up towards his mask, painfully slowly, as if each inch is a hard fought battle. Then, just as his fingers brush the line where skin meets latex, he forces his hands back to his sides and shouts.

"No, _no. LIES!_" He grabs Dan by the collar and throws him (along with the chair) towards the window. The noise of shattering glass is loud in his ears and then Dan remembers nothing else.

* * *

><p>He hasn't seen Nite Owl in several days. The man has not shown up for patrol, and searches of his house have proved futile. Rorschach suspects he has gone undercover for a new case, though why he would not leave a note is uncertain. Daniel has always done so, even with repeated admonishments that it is unsafe.<p>

Perhaps he has learned his lesson, but Rorschach is unsure. Until he can find out, however, he will continue to patrol the streets alone. It is necessary. And if the decaying body on the corner never gets taken away by the authorities, he pays it no mind. Let it serve as a warning to the filth, and as an example of the vengeance that will be wrought upon them if they step out of line.


End file.
